He tells me there are donuts on the other side.
The other side is the accounting side of the offices.
And me, I belong on this side in sales.

There's a door, among other things, that separate us from them.

The door swings freely, but it is a clear division
of two different worlds.

Here it is not very quiet,
someone is always talking, laughing, or getting angry,
but sometimes you can't hear anything on the other side
except your own thoughts
of how they only pretend to accept you.

Our clothes aren't designer
and they look down because we wear the same shoes
more than twice a week.

As for the donuts, they would have shared,
but only after they picked through
claiming all the good ones for them.

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...